The Difficulty of Straight Lines
by starry19
Summary: 2x06 "Then there was the entirely unexpected phenomenon of Garcia Flynn humming, telling her about his wife's favorite song. And apologizing for Amy. It was almost odd - she had never thought to blame him for that. Apparently she didn't need to, since he blamed himself." Garcy.


AN: How's everyone doing after that episode? We good? Anyone need to be revived? Have their pulse checked? Look, I'm a grown-ass woman, and I still shrieked in multiple places.

To me, Garcy was only ever just sort of a pipe dream/wildly subtle ship thing AND THEN IT SUDDENLY WASN'T.

 **The Difficulty of Straight Lines**

To say that she was feeling conflicted would be a massive understatement. Conflicted, confused, brokenhearted, and…hopeful?

A particular bundle of conditions that would just about guarantee she wasn't going to sleep.

She eyed the bottle on the table. It wasn't even very _good_ vodka, but there weren't many options in this place. Maybe they would get a mission to Russia during the Cold War and she could smuggle in some higher caliber stuff.

 _To hide under your bed?_

Annoyingly, Flynn's voice played in her head.

And, in a similarly annoying way, she realized he was correct. This was not a good way to cope with whatever was going on. There wasn't really a way to paint "drinking by oneself in secret" in a positive, healthy light.

She sat up.

Yeah, but what if she wasn't by herself?

Decision made, she stood. It was not a situation that warranted a lot of thought. And, if she was being honest, she didn't want to talk herself out of this.

She knocked, then stood against the wall, waiting.

It never crossed her mind that he wouldn't answer, wouldn't let her in.

As soon as she saw him start to smile, she knew she had won. She ducked inside, brushing against his sweater.

He was, as always, a gentleman, gesturing for her to sit.

And so she did. On the edge of his bed. Held out the bottle in silent invitation.

He took her up on the offer, dropping next to her on the thin mattress, fingers curled around the cool glass.

She discovered an amazing amount about Garcia Flynn in the next three hours.

He had laughed the entire time he'd watched the Bond movie they'd inspired, he told her. His first concert had been a band she'd never heard of. After he wanted to be a cowboy, he wanted to be an astronaut, and figured this job was sort of close. Christmas was his favorite holiday.

And for her part, she told him more about herself than she had ever imagined she would.

Her fears, her hopes, her theories about this damn mess they were making with time and history. She did not mention Wyatt.

He matched her, drink for drink. He did, however, seem to be handling his liquor better.

"Are you even feeling this at all?" she demanded, gesturing at the mostly empty bottle.

He laughed. "Lucy, I grew up in the Communist Bloc. We put vodka on our cornflakes."

He was…surprisingly easy to like. She had understood from the beginning that he showed her parts of himself that no one else got to see. The broken parts. The parts that desperately missed his family, the parts that thought he himself was a monster.

But this last mission, when it had been just the two of them for so long, he had opened himself up on a different level.

 _I'd like to get to know you_.

She'd had a fear that he was putting far too much in that damn journal. Maybe it was even a realized fear - after all, he'd stolen a time machine based off of it. But he thought he knew _her_. She didn't want to be on a pedestal, didn't want to be some sort of mythical figure to him, because she _wasn't_.

But those words, his admission that he wanted to know what she would tell him…

Yes, there was something there. It was difficult to deny.

Had been difficult to deny after Salem, when he'd single handedly held her sanity together, after JFK, when he'd been a quiet presence at her side, reminding her she wasn't alone.

And now.

When, without a word, he had lifted her down from the Lifeboat, as casually as if he did it every day, his hands on her hips. She had been a little surprised, but never afraid. He wouldn't let her fall.

Or when the bullets had started to fly and he had wrapped one arm around her and physically picked up her, away from danger, pressed against his chest. He'd held her so tightly that she'd been able to feel the phantom imprint of his arm hours later.

Then there was the entirely unexpected phenomenon of Garcia Flynn humming, telling her about his wife's favorite song.

And _apologizing_ for Amy.

It was almost odd - she had never thought to blame him for that.

Apparently she didn't need to, since he blamed himself.

There was a very fascinating man beneath his dramatics.

At some point, he took the bottle away from her. She couldn't argue with him. But she didn't move, either, still perched on the edge of his bed.

Flynn was still next to her.

Once, she swore he was looking at her mouth. Her cheeks caught fire. She doubted it had escaped his notice.

Evidently _nothing_ about her escaped his notice.

He ran a hand through his hair, and, without warning, she realized she wanted him.

 _Code Red_ , her slightly blurred mind informed her. Yup. Definitely Code Red. DEFCON Level 5.

She closed her eyes.

Maybe if she couldn't see him, it would be better.

Hello. This was Garcia Flynn. Time traveling terrorist. Who had kidnapped her.

And, her brain reminded her, unhelpfully, who literally thought she was an answer to a prayer.

It was hard to ignore that sort of reverence.

God. Because her life needed another complication. Yeah, complication was a good way to describe what had just happened. An intense and sudden attraction to a six and a half foot tall Croatian who was still in love with his dead wife.

Well, she had plenty of experience when it came to being second place in the Dead Wife Sweepstakes.

Suppressing the urge to groan, she flopped backwards, one arm flung over her face. She should have stayed engaged to Noah. Even if she couldn't quite remember what his last name was. He probably didn't have a dead wife in the wings.

The mattress shifted. Her breath caught.

Flynn's fingers gently circled her wrist, pulled her arm back so he could see her. She kept her own eyes closed. The alternative seemed too dangerous.

"Doing alright?" he asked, his accent a little more pronounced than normal. She hoped it was the alcohol and not a reaction to the fact that she was now laying in his bed.

"Yup," she said, aiming for chipper.

"Lucy." His voice was a warning that her answer was unsatisfactory.

Trying to muster all of her unravelling will, she opened one eye. He was leaning over her, dark eyes a little concerned, a little amused, and _more_ than a little tender.

 _Un_ helpful.

What would happen, she wondered, if she grabbed his shirt and pulled him down? What would it be like? He was so much bigger than she was. He'd cover her. Completely. A thought that should have set her claustrophobia on edge, but instead made her ache.

She shut her eyes again, lest he even get a _hint_ of what she was thinking about doing with him. To him.

"I think I'm drunk," she whispered. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Was she? Probably a little. Or, you know, more than a little.

"I _had_ noticed that, yes," he said. His voice was too soft.

She reminded herself that she _should not_ kiss him, and to hope that she actually managed to do (or not do) that.

The mattress shifted again, and she was convinced he was going to hear how loud her heart was beating.

One of his arms came around her, and he half picked her up. In another second, she was lying flat again, head on the pillow, the blankets drawn up to her shoulders.

"Time to call it a night," he murmured, sounding entertained, still entirely too close to her and yet not nearly close enough.

She opened her eyes.

It was a bad idea.

Because he was very, very close to her. And, because he hadn't expected her to be looking, he wasn't guarding his own expression. She was pretty damn sure it mirrored her own.

Their gazes met. Held.

He was still, absolutely still. She stopped breathing.

Not breaking their eye contact, he reached for both of her hands, interlaced their fingers. It was impossible to miss how his hands dwarfed hers. Slowly, as though he was arguing with himself or as if his self control would only let him move this fast or it would break, he stretched her arms up until their twined hands rested on the pillow above her head.

The thought floated into her mind that if he wanted to have her right now, she would be in favor of that plan.

He leaned down, and she had been right about what it would feel like to be covered by him. And it was safe, absolutely secure. How could anything hurt her here? Nothing could even _touch_ her.

His eyes flared. He swallowed.

Then, with infinite tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the very corner of her mouth.

It could have been her imagination, but she swore he was trembling. "Good night," he breathed. His eyelashes brushed her skin.

And then he released her, sitting up with a sharp exhalation of breath.

As he left, she should have protested. After all, this was his bed, his room. But she couldn't speak. Was pretty sure she couldn't even move. Breathing was still up in the air, too.

The door closed behind him and she wondered what the odds were of him coming back. Low, she decided. He was a gentleman, at least as far as she was concerned. He opened doors, always let her go first, looked to her safety before he reacted any other way. He was unlikely to come back in and have his way with her, even if she presently really, really wanted him to.

She rolled onto her side, finally moving her arms from where he had placed them.

The pillow beneath her cheek smelled like his cologne. She inhaled again. And again.

 _Lucy Preston, you are in a world of trouble_ , she informed herself.

Seemed pretty hard to debate that one.

She rolled again, staring at the wall now, arms wrapped around the pillow that was a hell of a sorry excuse for the man she really wanted.

It seemed impossible, but she managed to fall asleep. Just as soon as the blood stopped pounding through her veins.

The first noise she heard the next day was the door sliding open. She rolled away from the unexpected light, burrowing under the covers. It couldn't possibly be time to wake up. Hadn't she just fallen asleep?

Reality caught up with her in such a way that recalled lighting suddenly striking a tree. Starting at the top, and then flashing down. But instantly.

"Ohhhh, my God," she said, sitting bolt upright.

Garcia Flynn was leaning against the door, looking damnably well put together, a cup of coffee in either hand. He also looked like he found something terribly amusing.

"Morning," he said cheerfully, grinning.

Ah. It appeared that whatever unholy deity had decided she was going to want him hadn't changed their mind while she was sleeping.

 _More's the pity_ , the thought. Or, maybe not.

He crossed the room slowly, handing her a mug.

"How're you feeling?" he asked lightly, casually.

She considered the question. "Not hungover," she said, slightly surprised. Maybe her body had decided that a hangover was absolutely beyond the beyonds and she had enough to deal with right at this exact second.

"Good," he replied. He was surprised, too.

She sipped her coffee in silence for a while. Her hands were shaking.

"Where'd you sleep?" she asked. _Since, you know, I was in your bed_.

"The couch," he said, nonchalantly.

She nodded. Right. Of course.

Abruptly, he smirked. "I'm not trying to be pushy, and I personally would be in favor of you staying here," he said, "but if you're up to it, you probably need to head for the proverbial hills. Because I foresee one or two of those awkward moments we discussed if someone sees you coming out of my room looking more than a little…disheveled."

Oh, Jesus. Yes, he was right.

If Wyatt saw her, there would be a fight. They would yell at each other, he would say something stupid and hurtful, Flynn would step in to defender her, Wyatt would take a swing, and then they would both end up in one of those giant dirt clouds from Looney Tunes, beating the hell out of each other.

With more than a little reluctance, she stood. She felt a little dizzy, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. Her world had been altered since the last time she'd been on her feet.

She sighed, clutching her cup of coffee a little closer.

In front of the door, Flynn stopped her. Looking uncertain, he bent to look into her eyes. "Is there anything you want me to apologize for?"

Obviously, she knew what he was referring to.

She tried to duck her head, but he tipped her chin up. "No," she half-whispered.

His lips turned up. He let go of her chin, only to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Alright then," he said back in the same tone.

She had never been so eager or so reluctant to leave.

And, as it happened, Rufus was sitting at one of the tables, looking morosely lost in thought. That look changed when he took her in and realized whose room she had just left. She had seen him gobsmacked on a few notable occasions, but this…this might have taken the cake. His jaw literally fell open.

She held up a staying hand. "Look," she said, "look. This isn't anything you think it is."

He blinked rapidly. "Uh huh. And what do I think it is?"

Well, they both knew the answer to that. "Look," she said again, placatingly. "We had a few drinks after we got back. I fell asleep in his room. I stayed there, he slept on the couch. That is the literal truth, Rufus."

And it was. The _literal_ truth.

It did leave out a lot of important details, however.

The other man nodded, slowly. She supposed her story was helped by the fact that there was still a pillow and blanket on the couch.

"Just be careful, Luce," he said. There was a wealth of implication in his words, all of which she knew and understood. And all of which he was probably right about.

"I will be," she promised. It might have been a lie. "But just…don't say anything to Wyatt, okay?"

Rufus actually snorted. "You don't want those two re-enacting Celebrity Death Match in the kitchen?"

"Probably best to keep the blood out of where we eat," she said, eyeing the aforesaid kitchen skeptically.

"Will do," he told her. Then he turned more serious. "But I just have to say that I really hate being both of your best friends when you're not each other's anymore."

She shrugged, a little sadly. "Some things just can't be helped." Then she forced a smile. "I think I'll grab a quick shower before everyone else is up," she said.

Back down the hall she went, eyes carefully forward. Away from Flynn's door. Away from Wyatt's. One foot in front of the other.

And maybe if she just kept going straight ahead, she'd make it through this mess.


End file.
